Mischief
by vargrimar
Summary: There are no ships here, no schooners or brigs laden with plunder; there are no rowdy smugglers looking to blow off steam or inebriated kingsmen with chips on their shoulders. There is only him, Kidd, and a heist. And God help him, it's the most fun he's had all bloody night. [Kiddway with genderqueer James/Mary.]


"Oi, Kenway! Fancy a bit of mischief?"

Edward pauses mid-swallow and glances up from the weathered wood of the tavern table. The Old Avery may be loud with song and thick with swaths of smoke, but he can still recognize his own name when he hears it—even if he does happen to be a bottle down.

Sure enough, Edward spies James Kidd as he sidles through the rumbustious congregation of pirates splayed across the open deck. Kidd's movements seem effortless as he maneuvers amongst the crowd; he slips by a pair of brawling drunkards and their felled mates without so much as a passing glance. With a stein in one hand and the other upon the hilt of his sword, Kidd commandeers the chair across from Edward, the flames of the oil lantern painting the strong lineaments of his face in a sunset glow. He settles in and raises his stein, as if to toast to the night's good fortune.

"Ahoy, Kidd. This is quite the surprise. I assumed you'd be off to the Yucatán by now." Edward mimics the gesture and takes another swig from his bottle. It's bitter, but it's comfort, and it lets him steep in the warm embrace of its nepenthe. "Did I hear you mention mischief, or was that the poor bastard with the cracked jaw?"

"That were my mention," says Kidd. He spares a brief look over his shoulder at the battered pirate squirming on the deck beside the two engaged in fisticuffs. "Something tells me you'll not hear any such coherence from that gent. I reckon it'll be some time before he can manage more than a moan."

Edward offers a commiserate nod. "I don't doubt it. He took a right nasty clout. Lad should be missing a few teeth from the sound of it."

"Maybe that'll teach him to insult a man's ship," says Kidd.

"Maybe, but not bloody likely." Edward chuckles, leaning back into his chair. "So, the evening must be treating you well for you to talk of mischief. What sort, eh? Got something in mind?"

"I've an idea of sorts, aye. Was thinking 'bout exploring." Kidd frames his hands around the tarnished metal, fingers drumming at the sides. Hatchworks of cuts and scars pattern the spaces along his knuckles. "There's a warehouse on the edge of town, out past the harbor. Been watching it for a few days. Ever since the king's sailors ran out the lot of them brassbound smugglers, they've been taking it upon themselves to store sugar there. If my feeling's right, I reckon they'll be shipping out soon. Must be full to bursting."

James holds a peculiar sort of power to his voice despite the clamor. The merry music from the corner of the Old Avery's deck thrums in Edward's ear, an indiscriminate hum of pleasant noise, but Kidd's soft lilt shimmies in through the guitar strings and the barmaid's enthused trills with the insistence of the rolling waves. There is something masterful in the way he talks, something that arrests one's consciousness, and he commands Edward's attention with surprising ease.

It's little wonder he captains a vessel so young, Edward thinks, focused none too subtly on sharp cheekbones and squared shoulders and sun-touched skin. James Kidd could captivate even the most recalcitrant of men.

"Full to bursting? Now that does sound like a bit of mischief. Aye, I'd be keen to explore. See what the night brings us." Edward tilts the bottle mouth against his lips and drains the dregs in one swallow. "When should we make leave?"

"Now's as good a time as any. Get away from all this ruckus." Kidd side-eyes another raucous bunch of privateers, eyebrows arched in silent laughter. "I do love me some merriment, but this lot's bloody pissed."

Edward sets the bottle down and rises to his feet, hands grasping the edge of the table when the world shifts a bit too abruptly for his liking. He blinks, works down the bitter remnants of a swallow, and tries to better place his thoughts amongst the syrupy slowness settled between his ears. He is not too deep in his cups, but a time away from the tavern will do him good.

James takes one last drink from his stein before rising from his seat. "You certain you'll be all right, Kenway? Looks like you're wobbling a bit there."

"Hah." Edward waves a dismissive hand. "Don't tell me you're concerned, Kidd."

"If you'll be blundering about, smashing into who knows what and alerting every British guard in Nassau 'cause you can't walk straight, you can bet your arse I'm concerned."

"You take me for a fool?" asks Edward.

"Most days," says Kidd, decorated with a grin.

* * *

They take the high road.

The high road is not a road at all, but rather a pathway carved helter-skelter through treetops and Nassau's shoddy roofs. The townscape changes when one is atop the world, hoisted upon its back; it allows for greater sight, greater distance, greater height. Although it is a path rarely trod by the everyman, it is one favored by thieves, skulks, and other dishonest folk—and one greatly favored by the likes of Edward Kenway and James Kidd.

Limber and lean, James has the lead. He weaves between branches and skips over shingles, crunching boots to bark, wood, and stone. Edward tails just behind, the haste of practice guiding his movement. His hands reach for rope, for surface, for equilibrium, and he traverses Kidd's fleeting footsteps as he propels himself toward the other side of Nassau.

It's incredible how very natural this feels. He doesn't need to think about how to approach an obstacle. He doesn't need to think about what his body should do, how it should respond. Muscle memory shapes every breath, every maneuver, every leap; it's quick, fluid, instinctual, and it feels like flight tingling down the lifelines of his palms.

"Keeping up, Kenway?" Kidd casts a glance over his shoulder as he clears a gap in the roofs.

"Of course," Edward replies, leaping across. The landing courses a sobering shock through his knees. "How much farther?"

"We're close. Not long now." Kidd pauses at the edge of a hut, gazing out into the distance. The night is dark, but the ruddy pinch of cloth about his brow still holds its vibrant color. "Wanted to get a good look before sneaking in. Gather our bearings, as it were. We're exploring, after all."

Edward draws up beside him in a crouch. A firm hand settles upon his shoulder; it's strong, slender, scarred, with blunted nails and a notched back, and it drops a gentle trickle of surprise down the length of his spine. Kidd's other cranes past, nicked fingers pointing beyond the small grove of trees.

"See them fires, just there?"

Edward attempts to peer out into the night. The world around him sharpens, blurs, and then bathes itself in an encompassing shroud of cool moonlight. That ethereal sort of _shimmering_ murmurs in the film of his ears, and then he spots a series of torches scattering the distance that mark the operation's outskirts.

"Aye," he says. "Aye, I see 'em."

"Awful lot of lobsters scuttling about. Jesus. Knew I should've struck earlier." Kidd sucks at his inner cheek in thought. "Ah, well. Suppose that's the price for waiting."

Edward can't help but notice the increasing pressure upon his right shoulder. "Kingsmen have never been a problem before. Come now, Jim. Surely a few guards won't deter us from a good prize?"

"No, sir. No deterring here tonight. Would've liked a few less about, certainly, but seems it's a bit late for that. She must be full. They've stocked up on their boys."

"I can think of no better stakes. Gives us a good and proper challenge." Edward eyes him, clasping the arm that grasps at his shoulder. With the other hand, he dons his hood. "You ready, then?"

"'Course, Kenway." He can feel Kidd's body tense under the fabric of his coat. Hard cords of muscle course down beneath. "Are you?"

Edward doesn't need to answer.

He leaps from their perch with Kidd at his side, and the world seems to slow to a gradual crawl. The wind whips through his hair and ripples through his clothes, relief to the sweat on his brow. The distant calls of drunken pirates blur into the evening's enveloping shimmer. The ground seems too far away, approaching at a rate that seems as though moving were a mere afterthought. He can sense Kidd as he freefalls beside him, and he isn't sure if it's the rum or the night's blessed chill or the sudden sharpness of each branch and every rooftop, but despite the chasm of open air between them both, Kidd feels close, warm, and the whole of it feels good and natural and _alive_.

Palm leaves break their fall. Edward emerges from the pile to see that Kidd has already taken the lead once more, darting ahead with such precision and dexterity that Edward begins to wonder if a pirate is truly all that he is.

When they reach the perimeter, Kidd slides into a crouch and climbs into the underbrush with Edward close behind. The light from the scattered torches gutters with the night's gentle breeze, and from their position, Edward can discern the crimson shapes of patrolling guards. Smears of fire mark lanterns in tow while glints of stark silver mark those with rifles and swords.

"You weren't jesting about their numbers," whispers Edward.

"You thought I was?" Kidd's murky eyes glitter at him in the dim firelight.

"Not what I meant, mate," he says.

"Should've been clearer, then. I don't tend to jest about things that'll get us killed, you know. Not the best of habits to keep when it comes to skirting round lawmen."

"Well, you've not yet given me reason to disagree. I suppose I'll take you at your word for now."

Kidd turns to stare at Edward in the shade of the underbrush, one scarred eyebrow arched. The look implies incredulousness, but the sly tilt of his mouth says otherwise.

"Well, well," he says, "is that _trust_ I'm hearing? Color me surprised. Not very pirate-like of you, is it? Or is it the promise of coin that's got you cozy?"

Edward becomes acutely aware of how close they are, of how cramped this space is, of how there is an amalgamated scent of gunpowder, smoke, and rum stitched through James's coat and clothes. His scar arcs across his right cheekbone and over his eye, smooth and worn and white on the tanned expanse of his skin, and Edward absently wonders what had led him to receive such a mark.

"Well, I reckon risking your skin for a bit of mischief should count for something," he says. "Not to mention the aid with Inagua. I think maybe that warrants a bit of trust, eh?" Edward finds himself grinning in the dark. "Though the promise of coin does help immensely."

Kidd chuckles. "Pirate to the bloody end, you are."

Agreement in place, Edward takes the paths amongst the bushes and crops as Kidd slips away for the roofs. Ducking into another line of underbrush, Edward splits around the parameter and begins his work—careful, quick, and quiet. While he might not have always favored the route of stealth in his privateering career, he can certainly appreciate it now. There is nothing quite like chipping away at an operation's defenses by neutralizing passing guards one by one.

As Edward prowls through the fields and yanks unsuspecting redcoats from their patrol, he spies Kidd in his climb up the watchtower to relieve the inconvenient lookout of his post. The telltale swath of red catches Edward's eye as Kidd shimmies up the wooden supports; it follows him under the near-full moon's pale pall, a loyal and ever-present friend.

It is a curious kind of adrenaline to watch him work, Edward thinks, and an even curiouser kind of intimacy. Kidd has a knack for this sort of thing, _comes as natural as breathing_ , and it really does make him wonder. It is no secret that Kidd is truly as fierce and as brash as they say (and Edward has witnessed plenteous evidence to vouch for claims both land and sea), but this is something altogether different. There are no ships here, no schooners or brigs laden with plunder; there are no rowdy smugglers looking to blow off steam or inebriated kingsmen with chips on their shoulders.

There is only him, Kidd, and a heist.

And God help him, it's the most fun he's had all bloody night.

When Kidd successfully incapacitates the lookout, Edward takes the signal to advance. He skulks through the dense green of the swaying crops, drawing closer to the large bulk of the warehouse and its elusive key holder. He takes care to avoid the encroaching torches and keeps to the shadows as he scouts the terrain around the building. It proves a much easier feat without a vigilant pair of eyes on watch for suspicious happenings.

After sapping a few more patrolling guards and laying them amongst the fields and brush, prickles dapple his neck. He senses Kidd slink up behind him: the quiet swish of fabric, the whisper of hurried breaths, the soft swiftness of approaching footsteps. A tightness screws itself between Edward's ribs as he takes a glance over his shoulder. Although he is replete with the high of stealth and the forbidden, he thinks his heart beats faster still.

"Well done, mate," whispers Kidd, maneuvering beside him amongst the stalks. "You seen the codger with the key?"

"Not yet," he replies. "If he's here, he's not around the warehouse itself. I silenced those who were. Not one held a key, or I would've nicked it by now."

"He's here. He must be. When I were up there on the tower, I saw a few more crates left to stock 'cross the way. They wouldn't leave 'em out in the open for long. Too many blighters with sticky fingers."

Edward grins. "Like yours?"

"Aye," says Kidd. "And yours."

A moment passes where Kidd smirks at him in the darkness, countenance self-satisfied and warm. Thrill stitches itself into Edward's breastbone; the words he'd meant to say in retort have dispersed like bubbling seafoam upon the sand. His pulse hammers in his neck and the comfortable cover of his hood somehow feels far too suffocating.

Something beyond Edward's vision catches Kidd's attention. The lad stiffens, and then his hand slams between Edward's shoulder blades.

" _Down._ "

Edward flattens himself against the dirt and roots, palms pressing into the tilled soil. The thick, earthy scent of plant life and old fertilizer wrinkles his nose. James Kidd lies beside him, mimicking his compacted position, crushed close, arm crossed over his back. The cocktail of warmth and adrenaline has muddled his thoughts, but the threat of discovery overrides all else.

The unmistakable heaviness of footfalls tread along the nearby path. Edward's eyes are to the ground, but he recognizes the swinging light of a lantern in his periphery as it combs through the crops. He lifts his head to hear, just enough so that he might eavesdrop.

"Kenway," warns Kidd, but Edward shushes him with a hand to his cheek. The heat upon his skin seeps down into the webbing of Edward's nerves, _deep into matter_ ; a mischievous tendril coasting upon the swirls of his fingerprints.

The susurrus of conversation becomes more audible as the seconds pass. The two British guards amble closer, their boots grinding into pebbles and earth. Something about a ship on the morrow? Yes, that's what it sounds like—must be the one to deliver the sugar to whoever is looking to buy.

Shifting farther still, Edward strains to hear.

"… only got a few left. Five or so, I'd wager. Best be getting them locked up for the night, else we'll be in a world of trouble in the morning. Mister Crowley will be none too pleased if another shipment's a fortnight off."

"Aye, ain't that the truth. The miser's a fierce one when he's cross. Not to worry; some of the lads went over to pick 'em up not ten minutes ago. Should be coming back any moment now, come to think of it. Dawdling bastards. Probably got into one of the casks." Edward picks up on a soft jingling—is that the key? "They ought to turn up soon if they know what's good for 'em. My watch's 'bout done and they've got to go through me if they want in that bloody shack."

Now is his chance. Edward tenses and trains a hard focus on the source of the voices, muscles coiling to spring. When the footsteps are too close for comfort, he leaps out of his hiding place, hidden blades at the ready, and tackles the nearest guard.

The lantern strikes the ground and the man crumples with a moan against the dirt, impaled by a strike of steel. Before Edward can unsheathe his blade from the guard's skin, the other is upon him, sword drawn, arm locking tightly around his neck.

It happens in the haste of a lightning strike. Pain sears through his muscles as his windpipe closes in; he struggles, his hands vying for purchase upon the man's arm, but his palms are fresh with earth and sweat and agony wrenches across his neck and he can't quite claim it. Edward tries to shout—where is Kidd, he must be nearby, he _must_ —but he is rewarded with a pitiable wheeze and a reminder that he cannot breathe.

At the very corner of his eye, a flash of steel whisks toward his Adam's apple. A cold point starts to press into his skin.

And then his assailant lets out a jagged groan. His grip loosens just enough for Edward to twist free; he seizes the opportunity and ducks out of the man's grasp, rolling off to the side in a tumble. One knee bent, poised to fight, his hands flash to the holstered pistols at his hips, but when he sees the guard already slumped to the ground with Kidd looming over him, a blade sunk deep into the structure of his spine, Edward allows himself to relax.

"Appreciated, mate," he manages. He pauses to draw a long, grateful inhale to slake his lungs. "I owe you for that."

"Only doing my part. Someone here's got to make sure you're not still blundering about into who knows what." Balancing on his haunches, Kidd sheathes his blade. It disappears with a soft _click_ into a leather bracer strapped upon his coat's sleeve. "Luckily for you, 'who knows what' just so happened to be this dullard. Could've been much worse."

Bewildered, Edward's focus remains on Kidd's sleeve. As often as he has seen James in the past, he cannot ever recall seeing him equipped with such a device. Had he worn it earlier? The pub is naught but a pleasant blur. Edward remembers dark rum, thick smoke, and the amused glint in Kidd's eye, but further details escape him. If he'd worn it at the Old Avery, it must have skirted Edward's notice.

Regardless, he is well aware of it now. The longer he looks at the blade, the stranger he starts to feel, as if there is something about this particular moment he ought to know, like a forgotten word at the tip of his tongue or a mussed and years-faded memory summoned by scent alone. The blade's resemblance is downright uncanny; if those scheming Templars are to be believed, his own set of blades are Assassin-forged tools (whatever significance that might imply), and Kidd's looks to be the selfsame contraption: leather bracer, adjustable blade, razor-sharp, disarmingly thin.

Christ, and he'd used it with such _ease_.

"So, this one has the key, then?"

"I think it's the other," says Edward.

Tucking the thought of the blade into the back of his mind, Edward crawls closer to scrutinize the bodies. He rifles through the copious pockets of the one he had slain, and when his fingers touch a small piece of cool metal in the breast of the crimson coat, he encloses it within his fist and holds it up for Kidd to see.

"Ah, here we are," he says.

But Kidd isn't paying attention. He's busy dragging one of the bodies into the crops, tugging by the arms. "Come on, man. Give me a hand, will you? You heard the scuttlers. More will be along soon. Don't need no one else sniffing about."

Pocketing the key, Edward hefts the other guard over his shoulder and crawls back into the field. When he's satisfied that he's far enough in, he nestles the man amongst the stalks.

Kidd is against the warehouse door when he emerges, examining the space beyond the barred window. He holds the fallen lantern in one hand, handle hooked in the bends of willowy fingers. The gentle light chases shadows across his face.

"Wonder how much is in here," says Kidd. "You ready to find out?"

Edward draws up beside him, taking the key from a pouch on his belt. Kidd steps aside and allows him access to the lock. When Edward fits the key and manages to pry the door open with a curt tug, he takes sudden pause, stunned by the sheer amount of contents within: countless crates stack the warehouse, wall to wall and floor to ceiling.

"See? What'd I tell you?" Kidd gives an indicative roll of his shoulder toward the awaiting spoils. "Full to bloody bursting."

"Christ, never have I seen so much in one place," says Edward. "And right under our noses, the shifty skinflints. How do we plan on transporting it?"

"I don't suppose you're good for a bit of heavy lifting, are you, Edward?" Kidd jerks his head toward the backside of the warehouse. "What bit of my crew that ain't piss drunk'll be sailing past. All we do is grab the crates and kick 'em out to the beach, just behind here. They'll grab 'em up real quick-like and set off toward the northern shore."

"Crew?" Edward meets Kidd's eyes, somehow unsurprised by the devilish smile revealed in the lantern's incandescence. "Right, then. You were planning on robbing this place anyway, weren't you? And here I thought I were special. You ask all the lads out for some mischief? Or was I the only one who said yes?"

Kidd stifles a laugh. "Oh, don't go flattering yourself, you great prat. I'm plenty capable of handling it on me own. Just nice to have someone watch your back every once in a while, 'specially when there's loads of guards patrolling about." He sets the lantern down by his boots. Edward thinks he catches Kidd eyeing him as he straightens himself against the warehouse door, but he can't be certain. "And I'll have you know," adds Kidd, "you're the only soused lout I asked."

"Well, as _soused_ as I am," says Edward, sounding somewhat more defensive than he'd intended, "I dare say I did a better job at clearing out this lot than you."

"Tosh! With that one's arm round your neck, choking you out?" Kidd crosses his arms with a hearty scoff. "A truly spectacular performance. Begging your pardon, I think I'll hold my applause."

Edward is convinced it's the drink, but he knows the heat in his face is turning him colors. "All right, Jim. All right. I'll give you that. Not my best work."

"Good to know you're not always flailing hopelessly about." Kidd dips past the entrance of the warehouse. "Hurry now. If we don't move, you might have some other bloody kingsman catch you up. I'd rather not have to smash a perfectly good crate of sugar just to keep you in one piece."

Edward cuffs him briefly on the shoulder. "We're splitting this, yeah? It's only fair, isn't it? I should hope for half the work, I get half the share."

"Half?" asks Kidd, incredulous. "That's a rather generous amount coming from a man who wouldn't be here if not for my own ample generosity."

"It is, aye," says Edward, "and it's your ample generosity I'm counting on." He employs his most charming smile.

Kidd elbows him in the side with a laugh. "Incorrigible bastard. Count yourself lucky I've the patience to suffer you. Come on, then. If you want half, you'll get half—but you'd best lift half the crates!"

They set to work under torch and moonlight. Hauling up his first case, Edward follows James and swings around the back of the warehouse where the grass thins to meet warm ripples of white sand. True to his word, a group of Kidd's men have sailed out along the southern shallows of Nassau. He sights the doused sails of Kidd's ship anchored in the near distance, but his crew has dropped a couple of whaling boats to transport the goods. They meet him where the water laps at the shoreline.

Lugging every last crate is no easy task. Edward is not pleased with the required amount of heavy lifting involved, but he isn't about to snub such a lavish portion of sugar simply because he's less than sober and would rather be shut away in his cabin—preferably with company, of course.

By the end of it, Edward's arms, back, and shoulders are exceedingly sore, but he's made damn sure he's hauled half the load from the warehouse. Let no man say Edward Kenway doesn't carry his own weight.

"I'll tell my crew to stop by the _Jackdaw_ and pay your boys a visit," says Kidd, shutting the warehouse door. "Suppose you've earned your half."

"For all that work, I bloody well hope so. God knows I'll be sore in the morning." Edward bites the start of a groan as he stretches out his arms, trying to work out the fresh ache in his muscles. "Jesus. Next time the two of us rob someplace, remind me to bring a cart."

"Consider it done. The next time I've a cart on hand, I'll be sure to send it your way. You'll be paying the courier, though. I reckon it'll cost a penny or two more than a letter."

"In for a penny, in for a pound," says Edward. "If I'm robbing a rich man and my only aid is a quick-witted lad with an especially sharp tongue, I might as well."

"Quick-witted, am I?" The lantern sets Kidd's triumphant grin aglow with a rich, palpable sort of vigor. "You're making me blush, mate. Though as much as I appreciate the compliment, buttering me up won't get you any more crates."

Edward pauses to soak it in. He doesn't know why, but there is something about James Kidd that plucks at his inner workings. He has always regarded him well for his fierceness on the seas; to say he respects him for his skill would be an understatement, as it is not skill alone that marks Kidd as unique. There is cleverness there, a furtive sort of brilliance— _puzzles and ponderings and the like_ —that is as much of a draw as his prowess in combat. That confident, coaxing nature of his is yet another component, but there is something further still, an odd feeling amongst the admiration and companionship that he cannot quite parse.

Edward has always dismissed it as liquor, friends, trust, or whatever name might suit it better. These sorts of relationships among pirates are forged out of necessity, as no great empire was accomplished (or dismantled) by one man alone, so it had never occurred to him to examine it further. But it occurs to him now, knackered and drunk and sore—and while he can try to dismiss the feeling all he likes, it's nothing short of bloody obstinate. It proves a damn difficult thing to dismiss when the twisting knot in his chest refuses to dissolve, especially so in Kidd's presence, and that steals one heartbeat too many.

"I reckon we ought to make ourselves scarce," says Edward. Despite the soreness, managing a heist has left him inexplicably high, pulse quick and palms slick. "Don't want to go pushing our luck, now, eh?"

"Aye, suppose you have a point," Kidd agrees. "Would be a shame to get caught now, wouldn't it?"

Kidd takes a step toward Edward, but then stops short, staring out into the darkness far beyond his shoulder. Intrigued, Edward cranes his neck to glance behind him. Nothing out of the ordinary: crackling torches, light zephyrs, swaying trees, tender moonlight. He's not sure what Kidd sees.

When he turns back, he watches James's countenance adopt a glittering sort of delight.

"How's about a wager, Kenway?"

"A wager?" Edward tilts his head, interest piqued. "What did you have in mind?"

"I wager a round," says Kidd, "you're too soused to win a proper race."

"Too soused?" Edward doesn't bother to hide his simper. "Hah, I'll not be arguing with you on that front, mate. But why should I want to partake in this race? I've just lifted half a warehouse full of sugar with some haughty prick giving me hell every step of the way."

"'Cause you're you," says Kidd, "and you've petty pride, just as any other man. Fat chance you'd let someone get the best of you." A fiery gleam sparks in the burnt umber of his eyes. "Besides, the night's still young. Seems like a bit more mischief might suit you well enough. Not like the Old Avery's very far."

"You'd best know this isn't some easy way of getting free drink," says Edward. He rests a forearm upon the warehouse, narrowing the distance between himself and Kidd. "Hope you've got some coin, 'cause mark me words, James, you'll be buying me first rate spirits."

"First rate, is it? Ain't that a touch expensive for your taste? Last I saw, you was drinking piss water on the beach. Seemed apt, all things considering. You breathe the stuff like you've a set of gills. If it was aught but piss water, you'd be a far poorer pirate."

As James leans his shoulder against the warehouse, Edward glimpses a tanned column of neck amongst the worn fabrics of his clothes. The thought of coasting a hand along it crosses Edward's mind, and then the thought of framing the jaw above shortly follows. He is close enough to see pores, imperfections, perspiration, and deep sun-bronze. Bruised crescents smudge the spaces beneath James's eyes, the line of his scar drawn white by the lantern's flicker.

A hammering thump starts to strike against the undersides of Edward's ribs. He's certain it's the heat of liquor earthed in his chest, but the look on James's face kickstarts something hot and visceral.

"I take what I please, Kidd," he says, "piss water and otherwise."

"Is that right?" Smirk returned, James leans in mere inches from his nose. "Best start taking, then."

And then he bolts past Edward's shoulder, the flames of dying torches licking him red in the ink of nightfall.

Edward staggers after him with a start, rum-tinged thoughts afire and muddled equilibrium askew. Legs pumping, he rights himself and barrels toward the dark blot of Kidd's retreating silhouette. As his muscles awaken to protest the agony of movement, he wills his senses to untangle—focus, man, focus; shake off the damn drink—and he then begins the chase in earnest.

If James Kidd wants a race, then by God, he'll get one.

Urgency cords his body. Rushing forward, Edward sprints down dirt paths and leaps over splintered fences. He clambers his way off the ground and onto thatched and shingled rooftops. The telltale shimmer guides him along gnarled branches and Nassau's roofs; it paves out potential routes in that same supernal light, setting the night ablaze in wreaths of white fire.

An ache settles in his lungs as he pursues Kidd's darting shape. He gains on him with every fleeting step, weaving amongst broken brick, fraying rope, and rotting wood until he can hear the hot huff of measured exhales. That alone kindles a greater insistence in his heartbeat; competition flares like cinders through his blood. He wants nothing more than to beat Kidd at his own game.

Despite the lad's commendable dexterity and adroit maneuvers, it isn't long before he is within reach. He can discern the slim braids in his hair, the stitching on his coat's leather back, the folds of his bandana. Edward clears yet another lengthy ravine between the rooftops, the sensation of flight hooked into the soles of his feet, and he makes right for Kidd's fluttering coattails.

It truly is a curious sort of intimacy, he thinks. Others do not partake in midnight runs like this. They do not seek him out and offer an escape from the rabble, enticing him with banter and camaraderie and the promise of mischief. They do not set him at ease or prod his mental acuity with ponderings. They do not smirk or chaff or make him feel like he's got the fire of an entire bottle of rum lodged beneath his breastbone.

And even if they did, he wouldn't let them—because he doesn't delight in the company of others like he does James Kidd.

"Keeping up, Kenway?" he calls from over his shoulder.

"Of course," Edward replies, excitement coursing through him in runnels. "You'd best ready your pockets, James. I mean to drink well tonight!"

"Oh, they're plenty ready, but not for the likes of you!"

"We'll just see about that, won't we? You won't sound so cocksure when I've caught up!"

"I'm going easy on you, man," shouts Kidd. "You want to catch up? Come on, then! You're welcome to try!"

Leaping across a sizeable split in the roofs, James dashes forward over thatch and shingles, and then the distance between them lengthens once more.

Edward draws a tight breath and charges onward with renewed vigor. He arcs around tree trunks and hauls himself up the weathered faces of Nassau's huts, pursuit spurring every slamming step. Adrenaline crackles through his veins and sweat slicks at his temples and his gear seems somehow heavier on his body, but he shoves it all aside and sharpens his focus on Kidd's fluid movements.

God, he doesn't know how the lad's so bloody fast. The Old Avery is still a good distance away, and yet he's plummeting forward like he's in a freefall instead of a mere run. His boots seem to barely touch the roofs save for when he's wavering across overhanging ropes or taking a shortcut across the fork of a gnarled tree. It's fucking mad and impressive all at once, and Edward can only marvel—because this is James Kidd, William's demon bastard; this is James Kidd, the brash and audacious captain; this is James Kidd, the lad of barely twenty with an unmatched fierceness and lust for life; this is James Kidd, pirate and friend and enigma, all.

Reining in his focus, Edward tightens his movement and follows the shimmering. Everything seems to soak in that brilliant glow, and he lets himself bask in its guidance.

The moon is one slice shy of a newly minted silver in the sky overhead. Stars puncture the warm midnight, a crushed dust of precious gemstones and jewels, and the orange of fire speckles the distance like the blots of inquisitive fireflies. He can see Kidd amongst the buildings, a bright smudge anointing the horizon ahead; his limber body seems to eclipse all of Nassau's jagged landscape in its retreating shadow.

Edward wills himself to sprint faster. He springs across another open space between the roofs at full force, clenching his teeth when the shock of it crawls up his knees. He recovers, heaving, and thrusts himself forward into a dead run once more. His pulse throbs in his neck and his lungs vie for air as he sets a punishing pace in Kidd's twisting path. The distance wanes second by second; he gains on him now, dogged, tenacious, closer with every footfall.

The baying clamor of plastered pirates and privateers begins to crescendo in the distance. The light of torch and lantern appears in a xanthous halo atop the roofs, the curls of tobacco smoke billowing ever upward in a thin haze.

The Old Avery is drawing nearer, he thinks. He needs to catch up to Kidd. He _must_.

Whipping past another gap in the buildings, Edward shifts to attempt another route. He swings across the front face of a building before clambering to its top, hands gripped upon old stone and weathered wood. Ahead, a thick tree wedges in the space between another pair of dilapidated structures; the length of its branches might serve as a potential bridge, and yet they are not near enough to either edge. If he could overcome the distance and complete the jump, it might buy him precious time—and cut a shorter course to Kidd.

Edward sucks in a breath between his teeth, a cannonade caged within his chest. Muscles tense and sore, he leans in, veers forward, and launches himself off the building's brim.

The branch looms within reach. He stretches for it, fingers splayed, palm open, hoping for the rough touch of its bark.

He falls just short.

With a strangled shout, Edward plummets. The tight stitch of flight lances in with a gasp and the ground hurtles up to meet him in the span of a single heartbeat. Despite the softness of the grass beneath, pain throttles him in a spike as his back bears the brunt of the landing. The gnarled bodies of roots dig into the cloth and leather of his shoulders, and he finds himself entirely too stunned to move.

So much for keeping up.

Dazed and winded, he winces as he tugs back his hood. Everything seems muddled, blurred, spinning too loosely together as if he'd taken an unexpected dive off the _Jackdaw_ and had plunged right into the stormy roll of the waves. The shimmering he'd followed has faded from his senses, leaving the world mute once more. If it weren't the fault of the fall, the lingering drink must have dulled it back, banished until morning.

With a ragged sigh, Edward lets his head tilt back, eyes cast skyward. What a bloody night.

"Well, well, fancy seeing you here, Kenway. That was quite the tumble you had. Cocked up the jump, didn't you?" James balances upon a branch overhead, arms crossed, gazing downward with blatant amusement. "Looked bloody painful if that yelp of yours was any clue. You all right down there?"

Mopping the sweat from his face with his sleeve, Edward manages a nod. "Aye, I'll live. Pride's a mite wounded, but I'll live. Suppose I am too soused for a proper race."

"You did well, considering the circumstances. Maybe you ought to drink a little less piss water next time. Might make you prone to fewer wobbles." With a powerful sort of grace, Kidd grabs hold of the branch beneath his feet and swings down to the grass below. "Ah, well. No matter. Were only for a bit of fun, anyhow, even if I did get the pleasure of watching you fall flat on your arse."

Edward grins up at him, leaning on his elbows. "Was it good for you, then?"

"Would have been better if it weren't for a certain bilge rat." A distinct laughter laces the entrancing lilt of Kidd's voice. "First getting yourself choked out, now dropping out of trees like a sack of stones. Are your performances always so underwhelming?"

"Not always," says Edward. A familiar burn flushes his ears. "Find me when I'm sober and I'll give you a better one."

"Now _that's_ a false invitation, innit? Finding you sober is a challenge all on its own. I'd have better luck finding the fountain of youth. Maybe I'll send you a cask."

Kidd approaches him with light steps. Soft moonlight traces its pale fingers across his sun-bronzed skin, pathing upon the edges of high cheekbones and a strong, cut jawline. It grants him a certain allure that the guttering firelight did not; he seems a mysterious, radiant figure beneath the evening's skies, steeped in shrouds of shadow and starlight.

"Come on, mate. On your feet. You can have a lie down when we get back to the pub." He stoops down, knee bent, and hooks an arm about Edward's waist. "Besides, you owe me a round if I'm not mistaken, and I mean to collect before the night's out."

Edward forces a swallow as Kidd hauls him into a sit against the tree. His throat feels much too dry. "Aye, reckon I do. I won't rob a man of prize spirits. What's your thinking?"

"Not to worry, I won't be prying coin from your purse on account of costly grog. I can't in good conscience squander a hundred reales on a single bottle. Bloody waste, that is." Kidd locks his arm tight beneath his ribs and attempts to haul Edward to his feet. "I'll settle for piss water. Far cheaper, and gets you stewed quicker to boot."

Edward claps a hand on Kidd's shoulder, staying his movement. "Since when did conscience matter, eh? You wagered and won. I may be a pirate, but I'm a man of my word. Let me buy you a bottle of something worth its price. The Old Avery might not have the best selection—some of it's piss poor, in truth—but they've got all manner of drink. There was a damn fine whiskey I been eyeing, if that's your poison."

Kidd pauses mid-lift, fingers bunched into the thick of Edward's robes. His jaw works and a crease dimples his brow, as if considering. The sea breeze offers the familiar tang of sweat, salt, and gunpowder from his clothes. It would be a lie to say Edward did not find comfort in the scent.

"There are a great many poisons in this world, Kenway," he says. "The one I'd be keen to try might be a touch too costly for your liking."

"Too costly?" Edward scoffs. "I doubt that. I paid nigh fifty quid for a good bottle of whiskey once. Once, mind. Aged, too—fifteen years or so, I reckon. How much is that in reales? Four hundred? Five?"

"Five, aye. Or somewhere thereabouts. Rate of exchange gets a bit volatile from time to time, depending on the trade. Not that it matters much to us down here."

"Right. Five hundred reales for a damn bottle. Naught but a drop in the sea, really. Could earn ten times that amount from the cargo of a single Spanish galleon. With a few extra cannons and another set of mortars, the _Jackdaw_ would make quick work of any prize." He gives Kidd's shoulder a curt shake as encouragement. "Come now, lad. Think of it as recompense for the warehouse. I appreciate the mischief, and not to mention all the coin that comes with it, so a round's on me."

"Recompense, is it?" James regards him with a degree of skepticism, scarred eyebrow arched. "Once in a lifetime opportunity, from the sound of it. Don't think I've ever heard you so eager to express a bit of gratitude. I find that awful peculiar."

"Well, I'm _soused_ , aren't I? Peculiar or otherwise, I find gratitude comes much easier when you've a bonfire in your chest."

"Ah, you've a bonfire, have you?"

In a sudden motion, the warmth of Kidd's free hand reaches across and presses along the breast of his robes. James applies a strong pressure there, insistent, just over the thundering thrum of Edward's heart. It seems to sear into the skin beneath, as if the heat of his heartlines could somehow eat through cloth and leather and leave Edward branded like the black linework stitched into his body's sun-touched canvas.

"That's no bonfire," says James, his voice hewn in a gravel-rough whisper. "That's a bloody inferno."

Edward bites at the inside of his lip. The hand at the small of his back has now settled between his shoulders, pressing equally close, like Kidd means to sink his fingers right through him, paring past ink and flesh and bone until he might lock his knuckles together. The proximity alone is intoxicating, and although layers stand between him and bare skin, the tentative concept murmured at the back of Edward's mind is more than enough to hasten his hammering heartbeat.

"Aye, inferno seems right," he breathes.

Kidd gazes at him under the moonlight, his marked stoicism plucking carefully at Edward's pulse. The knowing glint in his eyes pulls a hot current into the bellows of Edward's lungs. The knot wedged down in the hollow of his chest has not moved; in fact, it seems to have grown, as breathing has become a full, conscious effort, and he cannot seem to suck enough oxygen down.

With that palpable heat steeped in copious stores behind his sternum, Edward curves an arm across the leather upon James's back. His palm flattens into the worn material, its weathering an almost delicate softness against the calluses wrought at the base of each finger. And perhaps he shouldn't, but Edward wonders if his neck is that soft, if his shoulders and back hold that supple sort of feel. He wonders if he'd find resistance if he dared to trace a thumb along the smooth line of his jaw.

(That line of thought should not consume him, should not persist like the constant crash of rolling waves upon the shore, and yet it is all he can think of: a hand to frame James's cheek, to bring him close, to see just how hotly that fire might burn.)

"Takes more than a tumble out of a tree to humble you, doesn't it?" There's something of a laugh, low and coarse; mirth shapes Kidd's every lineament. "Seems like you could use a proper humbling most days. Would've thought a bad loss would be enough, but you've got that look about you still."

"What sort of look?" Edward asks. His voice should not sound so breathless, and yet it's as if he's run countless miles without end.

"I've seen you with its like before," says James. "It's that kind of gleam that comes about when you see something you want. Fortune, reputation, treasure. Saw it when you shoved that map 'bout the Observatory into my hand few months past. Saw it a time or two when you was between ships here in Nassau, back when you fancied calling yourself _privateer_ 'stead of pirate. Even saw it when you told your tales round the tavern table, regaling your dozens of exploits for all to hear."

"Right," says Edward. "Not an uncommon look, then, to hear you tell of it."

"Not as such, no, but it's hard to miss when it lights you up like that inferno you've got under your gear. Feels like hellfire, doesn't it?" James nods at his robes. "All that swirling down underneath."

The pressure upon Edward's chest seems to deepen. It burrows straight through his breastbone and into the billowing heat behind it. It squeezes at his lungs, cinches the chambers of his heart, tying him tightly together like a doused sail upon the mast. Pleasure trickles in amidst his rum-thick thoughts, a tentative and gentle sluice.

"I reckon so," he says, dazed.

"The bottle only makes it worse, though I suppose that knowledge comes a bit late. Can't tamp it down or snuff it out when it's got a mind of its own." With a slyness in his smile, Kidd gives his chest two hearty cuffs. "Come on. Let's haul your soused arse back to the Old Avery so I can drink a pint of piss water on your penny. A kip's no miracle, but it might do you good."

Before Kidd can attempt to lift him once more, Edward clasps the wrist still poised over the breast of his robes.

"When you mentioned poison," he says, carefully, a rasp in his throat, "you weren't talking of drink. I think you were implying something else entirely."

Despite the brief flicker of surprise, James does not wrest away. "Noticed that, did you? I did say you were a gifted man, Edward. You've quite a knack for riddles."

"And I said you were quick-witted with a sharp tongue."

"You did, aye. Don't see what that's got to do with you."

"I thought we were mentioning gifts. I'd consider those gifts of yours." The warmth of James's hand crawls through his every nerve. "Not to mention the penchant for mischief."

James raises an eyebrow. "You'd consider that a gift?"

"I would," says Edward. "Especially when it leads to secrets and mysteries and the like. You know me, Jim. The prospect of plunder's like a siren's call. I can't resist when a prize is just over the horizon."

A grin slants in the dark. "I'll not argue with that. You've a real taste for gold on that silver tongue of yours. Only Edward Kenway's mad enough to go 'bout chasing the stuff of legends."

"Ah, but the chase is half the fun, isn't it? The thrill of discovery, the allure of the unknown. Makes the treasure at the end all the more satisfying in my mind."

"So you do mean to follow to the Yucatán. And here I was wondering if the promise of secrets would be enough."

"I must admit it has my curiosity," says Edward. "You do know how to pique a man's interest, what with all this talk of secrets and mystery. Is that a liking of yours? Playing on the mysterious?"

"I can appreciate it, aye. But if memory serves, _you're_ the one so intrigued by the mysterious. Nattering on and on about the Observatory and all its riches and wonders, daydreaming 'bout the secrets hid away inside." A ghost of amusement graces the shadows shaping his face. "That look lingers on you, Edward. I reckon it's got a touch of hellfire to it now."

"Well, you did say it comes about with the mention of treasure. As far as I'm concerned, the Observatory's a treasure. Just one beyond price." Edward presses his left hand farther into the curve of his back, the other still locked tightly around his wrist. "I remember what you said at the cove. We're not yet at Tulum, but if you've aught else you'd care to reveal about it, you have my attention."

"Sorry, mate. If you're so bloody curious, you'll have to follow. It's not the sort of thing you can simply tell."

"Oh? And why's that, if I might ask?"

"'Cause some secrets," says James, leaning in, "are meant to be shown."

Anticipation tightens between Edward's lungs. He suddenly becomes far too aware of their increasing proximity—of James at his adjacent left, of a knee pressed against his outer thigh, of the liquor-sweet bitterness on James's every exhale. Sense argues that they're drunk on rum and the lingering high of Inagua's capture; it argues that this is the product of too many weeks at sea, that this should not mean anything, that he should push James away, and yet he finds that there is precious little of him willing to acquiesce.

"Jim," he says, and it's somehow hoarse with a timbre of questioning, of uncertainty, because this is equal parts familiar and unfamiliar—he does not yet know how to act.

Even so, it doesn't seem to matter. James lets the hand between his shoulder blades coast up his neck to thread into the sand-blond of his hair, the other an anchor still settled upon his chest, constant and crushing. Edward's attention snaps to the heaviness centered in that tender place, and then darts to the turn of James's mouth, to the rapidly closing space between them; it trains on his eyes, on the depth and the richness, like beams of larch stained by salt and sea and sunshine.

The cadence of Edward's pounding pulse could lead ships to war.

"You owe a round, Kenway," James murmurs into the moonlit dark.

He then shifts on his knee, head inclined, and steals the remaining distance.

The feel of James's mouth sears with heat and rum. It molds against Edward with a hot, smouldering insistence, a flint-cast spark in the languid warmth of midnight, and it ignites each vein-line of gunpowder charted beneath his skin. The fiery bottle of rum ensconced by his rib cage seems such a paltry thing now compared to the voracious blaze crawling down toward his belly. It's as if it has been engulfed by something wholly beyond its potence, something that surpasses the realm of inferno, something that supersedes the writhing rage of hellfire.

If this were anyone else, he might surge forward and lift them into his lap for want of more. If this were anyone else, anywhere else, he might have long legs locking around his hips, his hands gliding beneath the weft of a bodice. If this were another night on another isle, he might rumple flowing skirts and whisper things a gentleman wouldn't dare, and he'd take delight in it because he is a pirate and a scoundrel and has little care for things beyond the present.

Yes, if this were, if this were— _God_ , if this _were_ —but this isn't.

And a mild clout of shock splinters through the haze of his thoughts, because this isn't a nameless barmaid or a woman of comfort, or even the woman he still calls his wife.

No, this is—

Christ, this isn't a woman at all, he thinks. This is _James bloody Kidd_.

And it doesn't matter. Devil curse him, it doesn't fucking matter.

Edward drinks in touch and taste like a man marooned. He revels in them, _drowns_ in them, breathes them in and lets them stick to his senses like sea life sprawled upon the jagged remnants of an ocean wreck. They ensnare him with greedy tendrils, their tangles as sure and taut as rigging, and they trammel him far down below the crash of the waves. By the time he reaches the bottom, enveloped by soft sands and cold waters (and the marvel that is James's mouth), he knows there is no way he could ever hope to reach the surface again.

The moment's prolonging culprit may be the scrape of blunted nails on his scalp. It may be the touch of teeth at his lip, the sheer closeness of another just by his lap. It may also be the fingers that have snuck along the side of his neck, the thumb pressed beside his ear, or the dark wisps of loosened hair feathering across his cheek. It could be any number of things—body heat, fellowship, the call of mischief—but regardless of its cause, Edward savors it with all he can muster.

Releasing James's wrist, Edward aligns the edge of his hand with the diagonal of his jaw. Something to bring James closer, nearer, because this is not enough, it's not, this is barely touching—

And when James dips back with a sharpened smile, distinctly lacking any furrows of guilt or penitence, Edward licks at the corner of his mouth and _reels_ because this is not—God, this is not what he'd expected. All of the twisting knots and blazing infernos and fucking hellfires be damned, this is not what he'd expected at all.

"Jesus, Kidd. Is this your poison, then?" he asks, breathless. It should be an accusation, but it isn't.

"Tell me something," says James, drumming his fingers against Edward's scalp; gentle, tender, contemplating. "How is it you can pick words apart all clever-like whilst muddled with drink, yet you fall from a bloody tree and land on your arse with all the grace of a newborn lamb? I reckon ponderings would take more effort than a simple leap across a branch. Proper mystery, you are."

"Clever-like?" Somehow, those are the words that stick. "Is that a compliment?"

James laughs. "Compliment. Right. If you can ignore the landing on your arse bit of that, aye, it's a compliment."

Edward can ignore it, and does—by kissing him in earnest.

It isn't unlike like kissing a woman, he supposes. If he closes his eyes, he can hardly tell the difference. The jaw beneath his hand is every bit as warm, every bit as wonderful. The same latent tension courses through each movement, taut and strong. That very same tempting heat welcomes each touch like coals alighting his skin. Even the shallow, shortened breaths have a similar sound, and he is acquainted enough with their like to compare with complete confidence.

Although the body in the crook of his arm may be wrought with more edge and muscle than curve, although chapped lips may meet his in equal fervor and with none of the silky smoothness or tang of ruddy color, Edward finds the pleasure no more disparate, no less diminished. It is all the same, in fact, if not better, because this is someone he knows, someone he _trusts_ , and—

And Christ, that is—fucking strange, he thinks, reeling still, for something so bloody different.

But it isn't really all that much different, now, is it? To know him further might, but kissing, feeling, _relishing_ in this—it isn't much different at all.

Dizzy and lightheaded with far more than the fog of rum, Edward briefly struggles with the concept of breathing. It is a bottled ache imprisoned right between the slats of his ribs, the flat of his sternum, pressing and desperate and somehow full despite the precise absence of anything like fullness. James grazes his lower lip with his teeth, a low groan buried somewhere at the base of his throat, and when James chances another teasing bite, necessity forces Edward to inhale something sharp. Relief is a whetted razor, like the svelte blades sheathed at his wrists, and arousal snaps through him, _hard_ , a cat o' nine across his nerves, hot and molten and abrupt.

He tightens his arm across James's back, crushing him flush into the leather padding cinched over top his robes. Words are impossible and he isn't sure he has the coherence to compose them anyhow, so he lets his tongue convey what his entombed voice cannot.

"Bloody hell," James breathes, a forced pause against his mouth. "You really have been drinking piss water, haven't you? No disguising that wretched taste. Maybe I ought to buy you a round after all."

"That can wait," says Edward, and tugs him in for another kiss.

It is short, assertive, a capturing movement, and further stokes the brazen warmth earthed beneath his skin. Kidd makes an attractive noise that is somewhere between a hum and a laugh before pulling back, and then Edward's face is being firmly framed by strong, snick- and scar-hatched fingers.

"Drink can wait?" James asks, a tone of incredulity in his voice. "Now that's something I thought I'd never hear. Who the hell are you and what have you done with the sot known as Edward Kenway? You haven't misplaced him, have you?"

"He hasn't been misplaced. He's just—properly pissed. Soused, as you said. And fucking barmy, most like. And—" Edward grits his teeth as he attempts to ignore the tightness in his trousers. It is far more difficult than he'd hoped. "And probably a lot of other things he shouldn't be."

"'Shouldn't be' is but one man's perception, Edward."

He bites at the inside of his cheek, chastened. "Many men's perceptions, in truth."

"That may be. You're not wrong in that respect." James shifts across to plant his knees in the grass between Edward's thighs, his palms steady upon each jaw. "But these many men and their perceptions, presumptuous as they are—they're not here, are they?"

"They're not, no," says Edward. He swallows down the ache in his throat. "They're not. And thank Christ for that."

Edward kisses Kidd again, full and proper, his hands dragging down to his sides. It isn't as rushed as the one just prior, but it is no less avid, no less starved, and it is nigh overwhelming. The heat against his mouth, the pressure along his jaws, the twinge of rum on his tongue—each touch attempts to slake a thirst that seems to have sunken down to the very roots and sediment of Edward's being. It's as if his body has been attuned to something greater, something beyond the heady thrum that demands closer proximity at any cost.

And as Edward flattens each finger for better purchase, as soft leather suffuses warmth into every crooked heartline, he can't help but notice—James is slender, yes, but _built_. He is wire, muscle, dexterity, and with all the thew and sinew of a jaguar. The olive coat hides it well, as do the loose clothes beneath, and Edward finds himself wondering what else they might hide, what other details might yet remain concealed.

Tattoos like his, perhaps? Yes, he thinks, pleased; intricate ones, scenes of seascapes and anchors inked down James's shoulders, back, and chest. Perhaps the serrated white carve of a scar wrought upon a shoulder blade to match the one arced across his cheekbone. Or, Edward thinks, kissing him still, ardent and unabashed, perhaps a further set of cut ridges and hard planes for him to chart, warm expanses of bronzed skin slicked in sweat.

And it occurs to Edward then, his palms roaming down to the lines of his hips, tongue swiping aggressively against Kidd's lower lip, that he has never seen James without his gear. Nassau is a place of freedom and debauchery, and while Edward often prefers to keep his swords and pistols close at hand, many a pirate sees fit to shed his layers under the sweltering insistence of the Caribbean sun. Ben Hornigold and Ed Thatch have been known to lounge about the Old Avery sans waistcoats, hats, and other extravagant plumage between departures. Surely it wouldn't be so out of the ordinary for James to do the same?

The sudden press of teeth upon his lip reroutes his thoughts, and Edward replies with a jagged moan. In search of further friction, he frames each hip and attempts to bring James closer. He wants to lift him, to pull him into his lap; he wants to have him flush with the aching stiffness trapped by his trouser laces, to have him grind and gasp and curse both Edward and the devil in the lust-roughened tenor of his voice.

But instead of sliding into his lap like Edward wants, James brings the thick of his thigh against the front of his trousers. He kneads there for a time, gentle yet insistent, seeming content to make Edward suffer with just how _not enough_ it is, and despite Edward's sharp intakes of air and the shameless rolls of his hips, James persists in that too shallow pressure, that too slow rhythm, and simply refuses to indulge him any further.

"James," he says, the name a coarse cinder climbing his throat—

And then the fantastic, insufferable kneading comes to a very sudden and very terrible halt.

Edward swallows a guttural noise of displeasure. Eager to resume, he tries to shift himself closer against the stilled press of James's thigh. When that results in James budging backward, _away_ , Edward tightens his grasp on his hips, a tactile plea; he is not at all ready to relinquish the distance. He continues his protest with an adamant pull, but James places firm hands upon Edward's shoulders, each press a finality.

"I reckon that's enough mischief for tonight," he says.

"Is it?" Edward must take care to level out the scratch in his voice. "I don't understand. Weren't you the one who said a bit more mischief might suit me?"

"I said as much, aye. And I have no doubt it would. You're the mischievous sort, Kenway. That's the stuff you thrive on. Robbing rich men. Nicking the pocket of a passing redcoat. Sailing on some unsuspecting schooner in the dead of night. Sticking your nose where it don't belong. Poking about dangerous prizes." Another kiss—quick, light, and far too brief. "Mischief suits you, all right. No question about that."

"And yet you would suggest it is enough." Edward leans his head back against the tree trunk, indignant. "You're making two arguments here, Kidd. Which is it?"

"It's not an argument, mate. It's honesty. Mischief suits you, but being soused does as well. The two make for a right nasty combination under the right circumstances." He studies Edward, the charred umber of his eyes almost black in the dark. "I'd say these happen to be the right circumstances. Wouldn't you agree?"

Edward scrunches his eyes shut, distracted by the hard ache straining up his hip. "Speak plainly, will you? I find myself addled and your riddles aren't helping."

"This ain't a riddle," says James. "Though it does seem one, I suppose."

"Tell me your meaning, then."

A laugh thrums in his chest. "My meaning is you're drawn to both the trouble and the drink, and as lovely as they are apart, the two so entwined might make you do something you're not yet ready for."

"Not yet ready?" Edward frowns in bewilderment. "I've just kissed you, Jim. On my own accord. Two—no, three times. Five in total. You think I'm not capable of making my own decisions?"

"No, sir. You're very capable. You make your own decisions, chart your own course, just as any man should. Don't seem to give a tinker's damn what anyone thinks of it, either."

Edward struggles to wade through the brain fog. "Then why the hesitance?"

"'Cause you're piss drunk," argues James, as if no one at all has ever made a good decision while piss drunk, "and you're in no position to bed anyone, me least of all. A kiss or two's nothing by comparison. Much more easily forgot come morning, like mist lifting away at sunrise."

James presses upon the space above Edward's heart with the flat of his palm, and Edward feels his breath hitch down beneath. He supposes the gesture feels more intimate than it truly is; gentle and coaxing, it dissolves into another familiar, solid weight, one that calls to things buried so deeply in his blood. It is the weight of a flintlock, he thinks, raddled—it is the weight of a sword hilt, centered and balanced. It is the weight of worn leather, satchels of gold; the weight of prices, prizes, and promise.

"I'm sparing you the chagrin, Edward," says James. There is kindness there, he realizes. Kindness and reticence both. "Come on. Take it for what it is."

"And what if I don't want to take it for what it is?" The question is perhaps more petulant than he'd intended—husky, brusque, _don't lecture me_ underscoring the words. "What if I don't want to be spared?"

"Then you're even dafter than you look," says James, "and that is rather daft, prim costume of yours aside."

The rum may make some things molasses-thick, but it makes others stick and adhere like granules of sand on wet skin. Concepts like prudence and secrecy and—for God's sake, some semblance of fucking _sense_ should be at the forefront of his thoughts, but instead all Edward can seem to think of is glorious friction and brand-hot kisses and Kidd's deft hand working up the length of his cock and maybe Edward's mouth gliding along the shape of his in return.

"You know, for a man who insists upon readiness, you do make a lot of comments about my gear." Edward thumbs at the thick leather vest atop his robes, expectant. "Seems to me you're a bit fixated. Almost like you've thought about this before."

Kidd does not bother to hide his grin. "If you think I spend my evenings imagining you stripped of all vestiges, you're going to be very disappointed."

"And if you think I'd be better off without said vestiges for a time," says Edward, spreading his hands in presentation, "I might be willing to listen."

"Arrogant bastard."

"I'm not hearing you disagree."

"Won't make no difference whether I disagree or not. You'll still think I want what's between your legs regardless."

"Wait— _I_ want? Christ's sake, Kidd. _You_ kissed _me_."

"Your powers of observation never cease to astound and amaze."

"Don't you be like that, man. You're the one who started this. That means you were thinking of it. You were!"

"I were thinking no such thing," James assures, "though I _do_ think this quite the remarkable accusation for a man who so boldly offered himself not moments ago. Do you often think of discarded vestiges? Or is it only because I'm a special sort?"

Despite his predicament, Edward can't help but laugh. James is barely into his second decade, and yet he still carries all the wryness and humor that should be with a man far beyond his years. It's dreadful and wonderful in equal parts, and something Edward will never tire of, even if he happens to be the unfortunate subject with more frequence than he would like.

Perhaps this is why he is so drawn to James, he thinks. His wryness, his humor, his good heart. And James does have a good heart—of that there is no doubt. He may be a merciless pirate with a lust for life's pleasures, but there is a touch of softness, of sentiment, and this moment is proof alone. It's yet another part of his bewitching dichotomy: James Kidd is a proper demon on the high seas, a tempestuous force as fierce as they say and with hellfire in his eyes, but he is also a close friend, cherished and true, a young man with a keen eye for waggery and for things far subtler than the likes of Edward could ever hope to see.

"You mean to leave me forever curious," says Edward, and his resigned tone sounds somehow foreign to his ears. "That's your aim, isn't it?"

"And what if it is? Curiosity leads to secrets and mystery, Kenway. Comes natural. You know that as well as any man." The devil lingers in James's smile. "If I recall correctly, that happens to be a liking of yours."

"It is, aye," says Edward. "And if I'm not mistaken, a liking of yours as well."

"Not mistaken at all," he replies.

And then James dips down, fingers curled into the fabric of Edward's hood, and draws him into another kiss.

It's longer this time, but still not quite enough. Edward has the feeling it will never be enough. No matter how long he keeps his mouth pressed to his, no matter how often he pulls James back, no matter how close he tries (and fails) to bring him, it isn't the satisfaction or relief his body seeks. Arousal still sings under his skin with the zealous potence of wildfire; he knows he shouldn't be grinding against James's thigh or breathing broken groans against his teeth, but it feels fucking marvelous and Edward refuses to be apologetic or repentant, not if James is willing to let him indulge.

If he could just—Christ, if he could just stop bloody thinking of divesting him of every last scrap of clothing. The thought is impossible to escape, a cannon round wearing grooves in the chamber of his mind, back and forth, back and forth, a mimicry of the sea's undulation (a mimicry of rocking hips). The act would be easy enough: guide his fingers up, tug loose the sash and belt, lift the heavy hindrance off James's shoulders, kissing him all the while. He could make short work of the white shirt beneath, and even shorter work of the striped trousers below. Edward may be tipsy, but he is well versed in plucking buttons and raveling laces; he'll be damned if a drunken tremor in his fingers will ever stop him from shucking vestiges.

Increasing the pressure of his thumbs upon each hip, Edward stays his hands. It's difficult to concentrate when James is sucking at his lower lip and it's even more difficult when he imagines that mouth framing the head of his cock, but he needs to rein himself in. Regardless of how much rum runs in a thick syrup between Edward's ears, he won't press further. He won't. Not unless he's asked.

(And God, does he ever hope he's asked. Not tonight, of course, but some other time. Maybe then he could strip him properly, somewhere _not_ in the grubby streets of Nassau under the bleeding tree he fell out of some twenty minutes ago—somewhere comfortable, secluded, where they might leave all vestiges long forgotten.)

It isn't much longer before James withdraws on his haunches, the heel of his palm treating at the swollen line of his mouth. Sweat makes him gleam under the pale moonlight. The ruddy bandana still holds tight over his brow, but more stray strands have come loose, wisping at his neck, his ears, his jaw. He looks handsome, thoroughly kissed; the nonchalance in his posture belies the searing heat immured within his gaze.

"Come along, Kenway," he says, voice pleasure-rough, and he offers a scar-hatched hand. "Let's get you back."

Edward takes it, breathless, and grins.

* * *

This time, they take the low road.

James hooks an arm under Edward's ribs once more and guides him down narrow dirt paths, mere capillaries to the veins of Nassau's main avenues. They keep to the dilapidated backs of thatched huts and to the hilled grassy banks that shape the town's sprawling landscape, hidden from the prying eyes that meander the wider roads—the long way round. It isn't at all like sprinting over rooftops or leaping through trees, but it is calmer and quieter than the alternatives, and after a night of hot adrenaline and just-tempered lust (and an obstinate erection that is taking _far_ too long to bugger off), calm and quiet are what Edward needs. He suspects they are what James needs as well, though Edward isn't sure he'd care to admit it.

And thus the remaining walk to the Old Avery is spent in amicable silence. Edward's still-sore muscles complain with vigor and the lingering rum causes the occasional stutter in the tether between his brain and his legs, but he keeps himself taciturn. James catches him when he staggers, and in turn, Edward offers his grounding weight when James missteps in the dark. Snickers are traded; words are kept hid away.

Their only pause is when a rollicking bunch of pirates wobble past. Edward lifts a hand in salutation, and he and James are met with a chorus of spirited cheers with sloshing bottles in tow. After the pirates have continued their awkward sway down the path, Edward can hear the beginnings of _oh, my name is Captain Kidd as I sailed, as I sailed! oh, my name is Captain Kidd as I sailed!_ lilting at his back. James stifles a cackle against his shoulder, and it isn't long before Edward joins him.

It's strange how very natural this feels, he thinks. It's a good sort of natural, a better one, driven by heart and feeling rather than instinct alone. It makes his blood rush and his skin prickle; it's that tightening thrill that combat provides, but instead of the threat of danger slicking his palms, he is flush with the comfort of camaraderie. Leaning on one another down crooked alleyways might not be an open freefall with a heist on the horizon, but it is every bit as exhilarating.

Eyes heavy, Edward tries his best to capture the feeling. He tries to bottle it into the back of his mind, pristine and perfect, a cork stuck in the neck to prevent it from pouring out: the warmth of a shoulder beneath his palm, the heat of James's lean frame wedged against his body, the marvel of coordinated steps and correcting stumbles.

He knows it shouldn't, but—God, does it ever feel wonderful.

When the familiar sight of the Old Avery appears around the next corner, Edward bites at the inside of his cheek and finds that he is too loath to move his arm. It feels good and right locked around Kidd's shoulder, and not simply because he's less than sober and would rather be shut away in his cabin (with company, of course; with _him_ ).

"You know," he starts, and then breathes a moment of hesitation, wondering if he's going to regret this, "I'm of a mind to partake in this again. All of it. Without the plying of drink." Edward scrubs at his stubble with his free hand. "If you'd care to."

A sly smirk sharpens Kidd's face. "Is that right?"

"It is, aye." It feels as though he's trying to swallow around a stone. "Should it not be?"

"Well, according to many men's perceptions," says James, wry as ever, "apparently not. But according to many men's perceptions, there shouldn't be pirates or thieves or murderers or other petty criminals, and yet there are. Plenty of 'em, in fact. A whole bloody brotherhood. The Brethren of the Coast is one such brotherhood." James meets his gaze, an arch glint in his eye. "I'm sure there are others as well."

"It wouldn't come as a surprise. Birds of a feather and all that. The Brethren of the Coast's hardly the first of its like." He pauses his thought, unsure, and lets the sounds of a few steps' worth of silt and sand fill the silence. Between alcohol's haze and his own desires, he could be misreading this entirely. "Does that mean you've an interest, then?"

"In mischief without drink?" James squeezes under Edward's rib cage, intoning a pensive hum. "Suppose I might. You're not bad company, Kenway. Nicking a warehouse worth is much faster with you around. Should be interesting. Maybe having a race with you so clearheaded will give me a good and proper challenge."

"Hey, I was close!" says Edward.

"Oh, tosh. You fell out of a tree, mate. If you think that's close, you'll be pleased to hear I've discovered El Dorado. Save the defense of your petty pride for another night, eh?"

Edward simpers, glad for the cover of dark. "Well, I've no need to defend it now. You've given it a damn good bruising, haven't you?"

The reply comes as a hot breath against his ear: "A good bruising's the last thing I'd care to give you."

Something in Edward stutters to an unceremonious halt. Equilibrium rent, one boot catches against the other and his traitorous knees give way and he lurches forward with his heart in his throat, frisson eating through arteries like sparks down a fuse. If James weren't at his side with an arm clasped round his waist, he's certain he'd be ground-bound with a mouthful of sand and sediment rather than half-staggered into James's body with an inhale of shock locked within his lungs.

"Jesus," he breathes, and he knows he ought to be more articulate than that, but— _Jesus_.

"Don't suppose you'd _care_ to follow to Tulum, would you, Edward?" An audible grin lurks in Kidd's timbre, enticing and terrible in equal parts.

Edward scrunches his eyes shut and tries to think of other things. The implication snags at the back of his mind—James in his lap, slipping downward; James mouthing across his navel, tugging his laces free; James and the wet red of his tongue teasing a line up his cock—and his imagination's vivid detail is more than enough to conjure a too warm flush up his neck, cheeks, and ears. He finds himself becoming more and more grateful for the late Duncan Walpole's lengthy robes. The Assassins might have outlandish tastes in attire, but he must admit it has its uses.

"You know me, Jim," he replies, and leaves it at that—because God help him, James really does.

They climb the Old Avery's wooden staircase one step at a time, vigilant of further impeding footwork. When they crest the top, James guides him through the crowd of pub patrons by the waist, ushering him past the merry instrument ensemble by the corner deck and toward the bar top. Edward remembers the race, albeit belatedly, and fishes through a pouch on his belt for his coin purse. He collects two steins' worth of reales into his palm as they draw near.

James slides his arm away then. The loss of the heat and pressure shouldn't make Edward feel so bereft, but it does.

The rum is dark and watery and not nearly as good as the whiskey, but it's cheap and paid for and they drink it nevertheless. They smile, toast, and force it down together—if not for the comfort of repetition, then for the inevitable burn of the fire. That is almost enough.

After the dregs have been drained, James lingers at Edward's side. His fingers drum an absent rhythm on dent and scratch and tarnish, umber eyes cast to the dark of the swallowing sea. His charm is as irresistible and persuasive as always, even in idle chatter, and it is him alone that offsets the sudden sullenness that nips at Edward's heels.

"What will you do come morning?" Edward asks, knowing full well he shouldn't.

A moment passes by, calm and quiet, the pub's din a world away, and the weight of a hand comes to rest on Edward's shoulder.

"Nothing sensible," Kidd replies, smiling all the while.

* * *

Edward watches him leave on fingers of fading firelight.

James descends the Old Avery's rickety staircase with all the aplomb and swagger of a proud pirate, dipping beneath splintered stretches of wood and melding out into the awaiting embrace of night. Edward knows he's off to the sanctuary of his ship, to the temptation of an inviting cot and the siren's call of slumber, but it doesn't quite assuage the pang.

Working his jaw in thought, Edward glances down to the blade affixed to his right forearm. He turns it back and forth in small increments, letting the polished flat catch the orange glimmer of the lanterns in its sheen. He then extends his left to regard its twin, a mirrored glint cast across its wicked edge. With a deft flick of his wrists, both spike outward with an audible _click_.

Assassin, he thinks, unbidden.

And then, intoned with a familiar lilt: _Some secrets are meant to be shown._

The thought of James's blade resurfaces from the ether. He remembers it all, clear as crystal: the leather bracer, the uncanny mechanism, the bloodied metal, the sight of it sunken deep into the body of someone who meant him harm. Although the high of staring at Death's sallow face has long since passed, a tarrying aftershock claims the long braid of his backbone, and Edward ushers in a sobering breath.

He snaps his blades back before raising his gaze out toward the cool dark that encroaches the Old Avery's deck. The moon looms overhead, shrouding Nassau in a patina of silver while stars fleck the midnight sky like dust motes scattered across a dagger of sunshine. The ocean beyond is as black as pitch. If he looks hard enough, he thinks he can see the inky shape of Kidd's brig lurking just along the shore, the blackened silhouette of the _Jackdaw_ anchored close by.

It would be easy enough to follow come morning, he supposes. He's certain Kidd will be long gone before the pink-gold colors of sunrise, so he won't have the wide white sails or the broad body of the _William_ to tail, but Adé knows these waters and so does the crew; the weeks long voyage isn't likely to give them trouble. The inevitable prize or three will distract from their course, as will selling off crates of plunder as they traverse the West Indies, but if Edward charts it just right, he might make it seem as though Tulum were naught but an afterthought.

It isn't, of course. It could never be. Not with the Observatory in the balance.

Not with James, either.

Edward steps to the edge of the deck and rests his hands along the weathered rail of wood. With hard eyes and a set jaw, he tries to focus his senses, tries to summon the shimmering that has crept through his being since childhood in Swansea. Several moments slip away in the gentle caress of the warm sea wind; the evening carries the breath of the ocean and the slurred rumbling of pirates in the breadth of its starspun wings.

And then the swallowing dark of midnight opens, a silken penumbra shorn in two. Moonlight shimmers like ice and diamond dust as the swelling waves rush toward bright sands. That same soft chime ripples through the film of his ears, the sound of comfort and familiarity, a tender strum to accompany the rhythm of his heart.

And there, retreating toward the white sprawl of the shore, is Kidd.

Perhaps it should come as a surprise that the Sense has painted him in such bright, violent colors against the monochrome huts and trees, but it doesn't. The olive of his coat, the red of his bandana, the earthen brown of his boots—they all seem to gleam with a blinding fierceness, ethereal and otherworldly as though he were a mirage walking on discarded dreams. He carries himself with the same devil-may-care stride as before; pride and confidence are clear, despite the ever-ramping distance.

An aching twinge makes its home in the hollow of Edward's chest. It isn't overt, but it isn't subtle. It only exists.

Carefully, Edward withdraws the age-soft vellum of the Observatory map from a pouch on his belt. He unfurls it upon the wood of the rail, tracing its whorls of faded ink, and he thinks of tomorrow. He thinks of crisp dawns, clear skies, strong winds; he thinks of cutting through seafoam and sunshine and the endless blue beyond the _Jackdaw_ 's bow. He thinks of sighting the lush emerald of the Yucatán on the horizon's edge; he thinks of humid jungles, old ruins, and the fetching contour of Kidd's smile—and the delicate tremor wending its way up his spine tells him all he needs to know.

James is right, he thinks, glancing toward the _William_ 's shadow.

A bit of mischief will suit him well enough.


End file.
